Dream Trilogy (19 page)

Her stomach shuddered, and she gulped wine to steady it. What a horrible realization, she thought. What a pathetic one.

“Are you all right?” Concerned, Laura laid a hand on her arm. “You’ve gone pale.”

“It’s nothing. Just a little headache. I’m going to take
something.” She rose and used every ounce of control she had to walk up the stairs rather than run.

In the bathroom she riffled through the medicine bottles. Her fingers rested on tranquilizers before she shifted them firmly to aspirin. Too easy, she told herself as she ran the water cold. Too easy to pop a pill and make it all go away.

“Margo.” Josh came up behind her, took hold of her shoulders. “What’s got you?”

“Demon dreams.” She shook her head, swallowed aspirin. “It’s nothing, just a nasty little epiphany.”

She would have turned, but he held her firm so that their faces reflected back at them. “Nervous about opening the shop next week?”

“Terrified.”

“Whatever happens, you’ve already accomplished something important. You’ve taken this place and made it shine. It’s beautiful and elegant and unique. Very much like you.”

“And filled with pretenses, priced to sell?”

“So what?”

She closed her eyes. “So what. Be a friend, Josh, and hold on to me for a minute.”

He turned her, gathered her close. He heard her loose a long, shuddering breath, and he stroked her hair. “Do you remember that winter when you went on a search for Seraphina’s dowry?”

“Umm. I dug up the rose garden and part of the south lawn. Mum was furious and mortified and threatened to ship me off to my aunt Bridgett in Cork.” She sighed a little, comforted by the feel of him, the scent of him. “But your father laughed and laughed. He thought it was a great joke and that I showed an adventurous spirit.”

“You were looking for something you wanted, and you went after it.” His lips brushed her hair to soothe. “That’s what you’ve always done.”

“And I’ve always wanted the unattainable?”

“No.” He eased back, tipped up her chin. “The interesting. I’d hate to think you’d stop digging up rosebushes, duchess.”

Sighing again, she snuggled her head on his shoulder. “I really hate to admit this, but you’re good for me, Josh.”

“I know.” And he thought it was long past time that she figured that out.

She hadn’t expected to be nervous. There’d been so much to do in the past three months—appointments, meetings, decisions to make, stock to sort through. The decorating, the planning. Even the choice of shopping bags and boxes had prompted hours of debate.

There’d been so much to learn. Inventory, profit-and-loss ratios, tax forms. Sales tax, business tax, property tax.

Interviews to give. The spread in
People
had just hit the stands, and
Entertainment Weekly
had run a blurb on her and her shop. A snide blurb, but it was print.

It was all falling into place, so she had expected the actual opening to be rather anticlimactic. The attack of nerves twenty-four hours before Pretenses’ grand opening was both unexpected and unwelcome.

Over the years, Margo had taken various courses to deal with nerves. A glass of wine, shopping, a pill, sex. None of those seemed a viable option now, nor did they fit in with the new direction her life was taking.

She was giving sweat a try instead.

The exercise facilities at the country club were, she supposed, top of the line. She had through her career played with free weights and pranced through a few aerobic classes. But she’d been blessed with a killer metabolism, long legs, long torso, and generous breasts that weren’t echoed in hips, and she had smugly scorned the fitness craze.

Now she struggled through the programming of a
Stair-Master, wondering how anyone could get excited about climbing steps to nowhere. She could only hope it would turn her busy mind to mush—and keep the weight she’d put back on properly distributed.

The huge room was ringed with windows that offered views of the golf course or the pool. For those who weren’t interested in the great outdoors, there were individual television sets affixed above treadmills, so one could walk or trot to health while watching Katie and Bryant or CNN. Various pieces of what she considered rather terrifying equipment were placed here and there.

Beside her, a woman in red Spandex doggedly climbed flight after flight while reading the latest Danielle Steele. Margo struggled to get her rhythm and focus on the bobbing print of the business section of the
Los Angeles Times
.

But she couldn’t concentrate. This was a whole new world, she realized. One that had been bumping, jogging, and grunting along while she’d been wrapped up in her own. A man with a gorgeous body and biceps like bricks watched himself carefully in a mirror while lifting brutal-looking weights. A bevy of women, trim or pudgy, pumped on stationary bikes. Some of them chattered together, others rode to the tune on headsets.

People crunched, twisted, bent, and punished their bodies, mopped sweat from their faces, glugged down mineral water, then went back for more.

It was, to her, amazing.

For her, this was a lark, a momentary diversion. But for them, all these damp, straining bodies, it was a serious lifestyle choice.

Perhaps they were all slightly insane.

Still . . . weren’t these the very people she would need to appeal to? The businesspeople, the clever rich. The women who worked out in hundred-dollar bike shorts and
two-hundred-dollar shoes. After straining and stretching their bodies, wouldn’t they enjoy a bit of pampering? Beyond the Swedish massages, the Turkish baths, the whirlpools, surely they would enjoy strolling into a classy shop to browse, be offered a cup of cappuccino, a glass of chilled champagne, while an attractive woman helped them select the perfect bauble or a tasteful gift.

Of course, the challenge would be to convince them that the fact that the bauble or gift was secondhand only made it more interesting and unique.

Calculating, she slanted a look at the woman beside her. “Do you do this every day?”

“Hmm?”

“I was wondering if you do this every day.” With a friendly smile, Margo sized up her companion. Mid-thirties, carefully groomed. The channel-set diamonds on her wedding band were excellent quality and weighed in at about three carats. “I’ve just started.”

“Three days a week. It’s really all you need to maintain.” Obviously willing to be distracted, she skimmed a glance over Margo. “Losing weight isn’t your goal.”

“I’ve gained seven pounds in the last three months.”

With a laugh, the woman lifted the towel she’d slung over the bar and blotted her throat. Margo noted the watch was a slim Rolex. “We should all be able to say that and look like you. I’ve lost thirty-three over the last year.”

“You’re kidding.”

“If I put it back on, I’ll kill myself. So now I’m on maintenance. I’m back to a size eight, and by God, I’m staying there.”

“You look wonderful.” Size eight, she thought. Perfect. “Do you like working out?”

The woman smiled grimly as her stepper pumped up the pace. “I hate every fucking minute of it.”

“Thank God,” Margo said sincerely as her calves began to burn. “Sanity. I’m Margo Sullivan. I’d offer my hand, but I’m afraid I’d fall off.”

“Judy Prentice. Margo Sullivan,” she repeated. “I thought you looked familiar. I used to hate you.”

“Oh?”

“When I was cruising toward a size sixteen, and I’d flip through a magazine. There’d you’d be, curvy and perfect. I’d head straight for the Godivas.” She offered a quick grin. “It’s rewarding to know you sweat just like a human being.”

Deciding Judy was likable as well as a potential customer, Margo grinned back. “Isn’t there supposed to be something about endorphins?”

“Oh, that’s a lie. I think Jane Fonda started it. You grew up here, didn’t you?”

“Big Sur,” Margo confirmed, puffing now. “I’m back. I have a shop in Monterey. Pretenses, on Cannery Row. We’re having our grand opening tomorrow. You should drop in, look around.” She gritted her teeth. “I’ll make sure we have Godivas.”

“Bitch,” Judy said with a quick laugh. “I might just do that. Well, that’s my twenty minutes of hell. Fifteen with the free weights and a short session on the Nautilus torture chamber and I’m out of here.” She grabbed her towel, glanced toward the entrance. “Oh, here comes the diva.”

“Candy Litchfield,” Margo muttered as she spotted the redhead in a floral unitard.

“Know her?”

“Too well.”

“Hmm. If you have the good taste to loathe her, I might just check out that shop of yours. Oops, she’s heading this way, and she’s all yours.”

“Listen, don’t—” But it was too late. Candy let out a squeal that had every head swiveling.

“Margo! Margo Sullivan! I just can’t believe it.”

“Hello, Candy.” To Margo’s despair, Candy bounced up to the stepper.

Candy bounced everywhere. It was just one of the many reasons to despise her. She was bandbox pretty, all perky features and tumbling red hair. In their high school days, Candy had been head cheerleader, and head pain in the ass. She’d married well—twice—had two perfect children, one from each marriage, and spent her days, as far as Margo knew, planning perfect tea parties and indulging in discreet affairs.

Under the surface, past the perky face and well-toned body, was the heart of a viper. To Candy, other women weren’t simply members of the same sex and species. They were the enemy.

“I heard you were back, of course.” With a perfect pink nail she tapped in her choice of time and program on the machine Judy had vacated. “I’ve been meaning to call, but I’ve been so busy.” The diamond studs in her ears winked as she smiled at Margo. “How are you, Margo? You look wonderful. No one would ever know.”

“Wouldn’t they?”

“All those terrible stories.” Delighted malice flitted around her Kewpie-doll lips. “Why it must have been just dreadful for you. I just can’t imagine the terror of being arrested—and in a foreign country, too.” Her voice was just loud enough to catch the interest of several morning athletes.

“Neither can I.” Margo struggled not to puff and wished violently for a cigarette. “I wasn’t arrested. I was questioned.”

“Well, I was sure the stories were exaggerated.” Her tone was a bright brew of sympathy laced with doubt. “All those horrible things they said about you. Why, when I heard, I told several of the girls over lunch that it was just nonsense. But the stories just kept coming. The press is so heartless. You were wise to get out of Europe until the scandal dies down.
It’s so like Laura to overlook all the talk and take you in.”

There was nothing to say to that but “Yes.”

“It’s such a shame about Bella Donna. I’m sure your replacement won’t be nearly as effective. You’re so much more photogenic than Tessa Cesare.” Bouncing perkily, Candy sharpened her lance. “Of course, she’s younger, but she doesn’t have your . . . experience.”

It was a shaft to the heart, well aimed and well honed. Margo’s fingers tightened on the bar, but she kept her voice easy. “Tessa’s a beautiful woman.”

“Oh, of course. And very exotic. That golden skin, those wonderful black eyes. I’m sure the company felt they had to go with a contrast.” Her smile was calculatedly tinged with amused disdain. “You’ll make a comeback, Margo. Don’t you worry.”

“Not if I’m serving time for murder,” she said under her breath.

“So, tell me everything. I heard the most hilarious story about you going into retail.”

“I laugh about it all the time. We open tomorrow.”

“No! Really?” Her eyes popped wide on a titter. “Then poor Laura Ridgeway did buy you a building. That’s so touching.”

“Laura, Kate Powell, and I bought the building together.”

“The three of you always did stick together.” Candy’s smile turned sharp. She’d always detested them for their unshakable friendship. “I’m sure it’ll be great fun for you, and poor Laura certainly needs a distraction just now. There can’t be anything more painful and distressing than seeing your marriage fail.”

“Unless it’s seeing your second marriage fail,” Margo returned with a cheery smile. “Is the divorce final, Candy?”

“Next month. You never did marry any of those . . . men, did you, Margo?”

“No, I just had sex with them. Most of them were already married anyway.”

“You’ve always had such a European attitude. I suppose I’m just too American. I don’t think I could ever be comfortable being a mistress.”

Temper shot little lights of red in front of Margo’s eyes. “Darling,” she drawled, “it’s blissfully comfortable. Believe me. But then, you’re probably right. You’re not suited for it. No alimony.”

She stepped off the machine, grateful that her session with Candy had taken her mind off nerves and screaming muscles. Maybe her legs felt like limp strings of linguini, but she wouldn’t give Candy the satisfaction of seeing them buckle. Instead, she carefully wiped off the machine as she had seen Judy do.

“Do come by the shop, Candy. We’re having our grand opening tomorrow. You’ve always wanted what I had. This is your chance to get it. For a price.”

As Margo flounced out, Candy drew a breath up her pert, tip-tilted nose and turned to the interested woman puffing behind her. “Margo Sullivan always pretended to be something she wasn’t. Why, if it wasn’t for the Templetons, she wouldn’t be allowed through the front gates of this club.”

The woman blinked the sweat out of her eyes. She’d admired Margo’s style. And her sapphire tennis bracelet. “What was the name of her shop?”

Nine-forty-five, July twenty-eighth. Fifteen minutes to zero hour and Margo was sitting on the bed in the ladies’ boudoir. The bed she had once slept in, made love in. Dreamed in. Now she was perched on the edge of it, holding her stomach and praying for the nausea to pass.

What if no one came? What if absolutely no one so much as stepped through those freshly washed glass doors? She would spend the next eight hours trembling, staring out the display window now so painstakingly arranged with her charcoal silk taffeta St. Laurent—worn only last year to the Cannes film festival—its skirts draped over a Louis XIV hall chair. That flowing skirt was surrounded by once prized possessions. A Baccarat perfume bottle, rhinestone-studded evening slippers, sapphire drop earrings, a black satin purse with a jeweled clasp in the shape of a panther. The Meissen candlestick, the
Waterford champagne flute, a display of her favorite trinket boxes, and the silver-backed dresser set that had been a gift from an old lover.

She’d placed every piece personally, as a kind of ritual, and now she feared that those things she had once owned and loved would draw no more than scorn from passersby.

What had she done?

Stripped herself. Stripped herself raw, and in public. She thought she could handle that, live through that. But she had dragged the people she cared about most into the morass with her.

Wasn’t Laura downstairs right now waiting for that first customer? And Kate would dash over on her lunch hour, eager to see a sale rung up on the vintage cash register she’d hauled in from an antique shop in Carmel.

And Josh would probably swing by toward evening, strolling in with a smile on his face to congratulate them on their first day’s success.

How could she possibly face them with failure? When the failure was all hers?

What she wanted most at that moment was to bolt downstairs and out the door. And just keep running.

“Stage fright.”

With one arm still wrapped around her queasy stomach, she glanced up. Josh was in the doorway. “You talked me into this. If I could stand up right now, I’d kill you.”

“Lucky for me those gorgeous legs of yours aren’t steady.” He gave her a quick, appraising look. She’d chosen a simple and perfectly tailored suit in power red with a short, snug skirt that gave those stunning, unsteady legs plenty of exposure to do their work. Her hair was braided, with just a few tendrils calculatingly free to frame her face. Pale as marble now, eyes glassy with fear.

“You disappoint me, duchess. I figured to find you
downstairs revved up to kick ass. Instead you’re up here shaking like a virgin on her wedding night.”

“I want to go back to Milan.”

“Well, you can’t, can you?” His tone was hard as he crossed the room, took her by the arm. “Stand up, get a grip on yourself.” Those big blue eyes were swimming, and he was afraid that if the first tear fell, he would break and carry her off anywhere she wanted to go. “It’s a damn store, for Christ’s sake, not a capital trial. It’s just like you to blow it out of proportion.”

“It’s not just a store.” Her voice hitched, mortifying her. “It’s all I’ve got.”

“Then go down and do something about it.”

“I don’t want to go down. What if no one comes? Or if they only come to stare and snicker.”

“What if they don’t? What if they do? There are plenty of people who’ll be interested enough to breeze by just to see you fall on your face. Keep this up and that’s all they’re going to see.”

“I shouldn’t have started out so big.”

“Since that applies to every aspect of your life, I don’t see why you’re complaining now.” He studied her face, angry with her for letting him see the fear, angry with himself for wanting to protect her. “Look, you’ve got five minutes, and you’ll make up your own mind. I’ve got my own problems to deal with.” He brought out the single red rose he’d held behind his back and curled her fingers around the stem. “Let me know how you deal with yours.”

He closed his lips over hers impatiently and didn’t wait for her reaction.

He could have offered a little sympathy, she fumed and stalked into the bathroom to retouch her makeup. Just a little understanding and support. No, not Josh. She slammed her blusher back into the cabinet. All she got from him was insults
and surly remarks. Well, that was fine. That was good. It reminded her that she had no one to lean on but herself.

Five minutes later, she made herself walk downstairs. Laura was beaming at the big, ornate cash register as its bells chimed.

“You’ve got to stop playing with that thing.”

“I’m not playing.” Face flushed with excitement, she turned to Margo. “I’ve just rung up our first sale.”

“But we’re not open.”

“Josh bought the little Deco lamp before he left. He said to box it up and ship it.” Reaching across the counter, she grabbed Margo’s hands and squeezed. “Box it up and ship it, Margo. It’s our first box it up and ship it. You can always depend on Josh.”

Margo let out a shaky laugh. Damn him, it was just like him. “Yeah, you can, can’t you?” The mantel clock behind the counter chimed the hour. Zero hour. “Well, I guess we’d better . . . Laura, I’m—”

“Me, too.” Laura drew a long, cleansing breath. “Let’s open for business, partner.”

“Yeah.” Margo straightened her shoulders and angled her chin as she crossed to the door. “And fuck them if they can’t take a joke.”

Two hours later, she wasn’t sure if she was thrilled or punch-drunk. She couldn’t claim they were jammed with customers, particularly of the paying variety. But they’d enjoyed a small, steady stream almost from the first minute. She had, with her own trembling hands, rung up the second sale of the day barely fifteen minutes after opening the doors. Both she and the tourist from Tulsa had agreed that the silver cuff bracelet was an excellent buy.

With some amazement and no little admiration, she’d watched Laura steer a trio of browsers toward the wardrobe
room like a veteran shop clerk and flatter them into reaching for their credit cards.

When Kate arrived at twelve-thirty, Margo was closing the sapphire earrings from the display window into one of the bright gold boxes with silver lettering that she’d chosen for the shop’s trademark.

“I know your wife’s going to love them,” she said as she slipped the box into a tiny gold bag. Her hands weren’t trembling, but they wanted to. “I did. And happy anniversary.”

The minute the customer stepped away from the counter, she snagged Kate’s hand and pulled her into the powder room. “That was fifteen hundred and seventy-five dollars, plus tax.” Grabbing Kate around the waist, she led her into a quick, clattering dance. “We’re selling things, Kate.”

“That was the idea.” It had killed her not to be there, with Laura and Margo, to open the doors for the first time. But responsibility at Bittle took priority. “You own a store, you sell things.”

“No, we’re really selling them. Liz Carstairs was in and bought the set of Tiffany wineglasses for her daughter’s shower gift, and this couple from Connecticut bought the gateleg table. We’re shipping it. And, oh, more. We’re not going to be paying that storage bill for the rest of the stock much longer.”

“Are you logging the sales?”

“Yeah—well, I might have made a couple of mistakes, but we’ll fix that. Come on, you can ring something up.” She paused with a hand on the door. “It’s sort of like sex. There’s this attraction, and you build on it, then there’s foreplay, little thrills of anticipation, then there’s this big bang.”

“Want a cigarette?”

“I’m dying for one.”

“You’re really getting into this, aren’t you?”

“I had no idea that sales could be so . . . stimulating. Give it a shot.”

Kate glanced at her watch. “I’ve only got forty-five minutes, but, hey, I’m all for cheap thrills.”

Margo snagged her wrist, studied the clean lines of the practical Timex. “You know, we could get a good price for this.”

“Control yourself, Margo.”

She tried. But every now and again throughout the day she had to find some quiet corner and simply gloat. Maybe her emotions were swinging high and wide like a batter too eager to score, but she just didn’t care. If there was a pang now and then when one of her treasured trinkets slipped away in a gold-and-silver box, there was also a sense of triumph.

People had come. And for every one who snickered there was another who admired, and another who bought.

By three, when there was a lull, she poured two cups of the tea they’d offered to customers throughout the morning. “I’m not hallucinating, am I?”

“Not unless we both are.” Laura winced as she wriggled her toes. “And my feet hurt too much for this to be a dream. Margo, I think we’ve actually done it.”

“Let’s not say that yet. We could jinx it.” Carrying her cup, she walked over to straighten a vase of roses. “I mean, maybe this is just fate’s way of sneering at us. Giving us a few hours of success. We’re open for three more hours, and . . . the hell with that.” She whirled around. “We’re a hit. We’re a smash!”

“I wish you’d be more enthusiastic—and I wish I could stay and ride the next wave with you.” Wincing, Laura looked at her watch. “But the girls have dance class. I’ll wash out the cups before I go.”

“No, I’ll take care of them.”

The door opened, letting in a group of teenage girls who made a beeline for the jewelry counter.

“We have customers,” Laura murmured and gathered up the cups herself. “We have customers,” she repeated, grinning. “I’ll try to be here tomorrow by one.” There were so many obligations to juggle, and she worried about how long it would be before she started dropping balls. “Are you sure you can handle working the shop by yourself?”

“We agreed from the start that you’d have to be part time. I’m going to learn how to handle it. Get going.”

“As soon as I wash these.” She stopped, turned. “Margo, I don’t know the last time I had this much fun.”

Nor did she, Margo thought. As she measured her young customers, a smile began to bloom. Teenage girls who wore designer shoes had generous allowances—and parents with gold cards. She crossed to the counter, took her place behind it.

“Hello, ladies. Can I show you something?”

Josh didn’t mind long hours. He could handle being chained to a desk and being buried under paperwork. Though it wasn’t as appealing as zipping across continents to fine-tune the workings of a busy hotel chain and its subsidiaries, he could deal with it cheerfully enough.

But what really pissed him off was being played for a fool.

The longer he remained in the penthouse and studied the files generated from the California Templetons, the more certain he was that Peter Ridgeway had done just that.

He’d done his job. There was no way to accuse him, legally, of mishandling funds or staff, of cutting corners. Though he had done precisely those things, Peter had documented it all, in terms of his rationale, his position, and the increase in profit that his alterations had generated.

But Templeton had never been an organization that was motivated exclusively by profit. It was a family-owned operation steeped in two hundred years of innkeeping tradition that
prided itself on its humanity, on its commitment to the people who worked in it and for it.

Yes, Ridgeway had increased profits, but he had done so by changing staff, cutting back on full-time employees in favor of part-time ones. And thereby squeezing people out of benefits and slicing their pay stubs.

He’d negotiated a new deal with wholesalers, produce distributors, and as a result had lowered the quality in the staff kitchens. Employee discounts in reservations and in Templeton hotel boutiques had been cut back, reducing the incentive that had always been traditional for Templeton people to use Templeton services.

In the meantime, his own expense account had increased. His bills for meals, laundry, entertainment, flowers, travel, had steadily grown. He’d even had the gall to charge his trip to Aruba to Templeton as a business expense.

It gave Josh great pleasure to cancel Peter’s corporate credit cards. Even if he did consider it too little, too late.

Should have aimed for his balls after all, he thought, and leaned back to rub his tired eyes.

It would take months to rebuild trust among the staff. A huge bonus and a mountain of flattery would be necessary to lure back the head chef who had quit in a huff at Ridgeway’s interference. Added to that was the resignation from the longtime concierge at Templeton San Francisco that he’d found buried in Peter’s files. There were others as well. Some could be lured back, others were lost to competitors.

None of them had come to him, Josh mused, or to his parents. Because they’d believed, justifiably, that Peter Ridgeway was a trusted, highly placed member of the Templeton group.

He tugged at his tie, trying not to think about the amount of work that still lay before him. Someone was going to have to take over his responsibilities in Europe, at least temporarily. He wasn’t going anywhere.

Already the penthouse suite was more his than Ridgeway’s. The fussy furniture had been replaced with Josh’s preference for the traditional. American and Spanish antiques, with deeply cushioned, generous chairs were more in keeping with the scheme of Templeton Monterey. After all, the hotel and its decor followed the history of the area. The resort was more truly of California Spanish design, but the hotel echoed it in the ornate facade, the musical fountains, and lush gardens. The lobby was done in deep reds and golds, offering heavy chairs, long, high tables, winking brass, and glossy tiled floors.

There were potted palms, like the one he’d chosen for the corner of his office, in a huge hand-thrown clay pot that took two men with beefy arms to lift.

He’d always thought Templeton Paris more feminine, with its mix of the airy and the ornate, and Templeton London more distinguished, so British with its two-level lobby and cozy tearoom.

But Monterey was perhaps closest to his heart after all. Not that he’d ever pictured himself settling behind a desk here, even if it was a Duncan Phyfe, with an eye-blurring view of the coast he loved only a head’s turn away.